The fable of the world doesn’t exist.
Ask the hologram of his kiss.
The dreams we dreamt evaporated.
Ask the schemes of the advocated.
The blindfold is fool’s gold.
Ask time; it never grows old.

And although nothing can stay
I wish you were here today.

The moment arrives and befalls.
Like the highs and lows of cholesterol.
The things I wish for are transient.
Like the ambiance of accidents.
The faith in my chest is insoluble.
Like consolation in the uncontrollable.

And although nothing can stay
I wish you were here today.

The memories spin on its own axis.
And feelings give way to its blackness.
The wind whispers your sweet name.
And I’m allowed to say hi without blame.
The seasons change vast and fluid.
And warm and cold weather are reputed.

My new therapist wants me to open the mystery door about my mother’s death because apparently I’m not depressed enough for her. Ha! It’s been a little over a year and a half and I still haven’t come to terms with how I feel about my mother’s death except I’m happy she’s no longer suffering in this cruel world.

Sometimes I go to the river by the busy highway and speak to her directly or through the universe. I light candles for her in her honor every few months. My partner and I get her blue flowers also as tribute. At times, I believe, one reason why I cemented my journey and involvement with ballet-inspired workouts is because I remembered in her childhood she wanted to be a Ballerina, so I honor her by learning and performing ballet. Last, but not least, I hung her last painting high up on the wall of a bridge over water over a plush purple night that looks a lot like the bridge I eerily live close to nowadays.

And I’m not sure if because death came and went, or because of my denial, but it’s pretty weird how the older I get and the more I stare in the mirror, the more I realize how much I look like my mother’s daughter. I guess everyone saw it before me. Maybe I wasn’t looking hard enough before. Who knows?

The truth is I haven’t been able to sit down and stare longer than five seconds on any of my mother’s photos. I’ve seen a lot of her different dimensions at different times and the longer I stare at a photo, the more all those dimensions pop out and the more I may have to relive memories that leave me open and scarred.

The longer I stare, the quicker my eyes start to flood and the quicker I start to counter and strain to contain the waterworks. I’m not a sappy person. I don’t forget my cruel childhood, but death has a weird way of sitting you down and making you think about your mortality and everybody else’s even if you don’t want to sit down and think about it. And even though I can be heavily into death itself and metaphysics and pits of darkness, it seems at the age of thirty-four death seems realer than ever.

*

Death has also made me think more about how ending memories are probably the most important ones. This intrigued me because I’m all about beginnings, so for closing memories to leave a devastating mark haunts me. What’s worse is I didn’t even get to say goodbye while she was conscious. By the time I went to travel to the hospital to see her I was in a wheelchair with a very painful throbbing ankle in a heavy cast. It was hell for my foot to not be elevated, but I believe I was numb inside from my mother’s death. So much was taken from me in a matter of weeks from mobility and now her.

It was awful having the knowledge of how the doctors had to sedate her until she was finally gone because the pain in her intestines would be too much for her to handle. And that’s what hurts the most. I think about how hard her life has always been. I think about all the times I didn’t want to be happy in my own life because I felt guilty because she was always out there suffering with an incurable disease. My last memory of her alive was observing her writhing in massive pain. I knew in the way she talked, it was psychologically different from anything I’ve ever heard her say. In her words, in the way she spoke she was already gone.

It was hard to stomach mentally and it was harder to stomach visually how she could no longer go to the bathroom on her own and how the nurses were the ones bathing her in the room on her bed. But on the last day I saw her I caressed her hair. I remembered kissing her on her warm forehead telling her I’ll visit again very soon, but soon after I broke my ankle and I was already far far away from reaching her.

My mother was dying since I was nine years old. I became desensitized to every near death and actual near death experience she’s ever has, so when this became the day, it was as if life played a hardcore prank on me. It just seemed like every time she survived another one and another one and another one, but not this time.

Who knew that was going to be the last time I saw her talking or breathing? Who knew that would’ve been the last kiss I gave her on her warm forehead? I think some people have fantasies about how they want people to go before they die. I always thought I’d see her one last time with my brother in the hospital room and we would both take turns saying, “We forgive you for everything. We know you did the best you could. We’ll always love you.”

But nothing ever turns out the way you expect in life and that’s just how it is. So now I think about the other ending memories, the ones way before she went back into the hospital for a gazillion time. I think about how even though I didn’t have the best relationship with her throughout my life, she did branch into a second mother towards the ending of her life. She was a newer mother, better mature. During that process, I believe a big part of her learned to really appreciate me because I was there to the end unlike my brother who stopped showing up to the hospital and didn’t even come to see her at her own funeral.

*

I’m left with the ending memories like how I did visit her more often in the hospice. How I left the house with $50 bucks one day and took her to a street fair where I bought her food, had her play games until she won a stuffed animal and I went back home with a $1 in my pocket. At the time, for a moment I was upset, but I quickly thought about how she wasn’t going to be around forever – so this is something I’m supposed to do and it was something that came out of my heart anyway. Plus I wanted her to have a good time and not worry about death coming closer and closer.

I think about the ending memories and how I would take her out on pass for a few hours to enjoy new foods, to get her soda and cigarettes, to enjoy the sun and we would sit in the park and watch the hot guys play soccer. I think about how for a very long time before I even thought about taking her out and seeing her often, for a time I stopped seeing her altogether. I stopped seeing her for so long with the intention to make her suffer like she did me and when I came in the hospice room she hugged me tightly and cried so much. I was still pretty numb at the time. I’ve always been.

I never thought she felt like that about me – love. Or how my friend (who now is my current partner) passed me a cigarette behind her back while we walked to the pizza shop out on pass and she scolded him lovingly, “Are you getting my daughter into smoking now?” And that was the first time in a long time where I thought, “Hey, she must care about me.”

My voice is coming back.
I figured, I ironed my hair flat
Get on a straight groove
Create great moves.
Fuck the past!
There’s nothing there,
So, don’t ask.
My brother disappeared
To somewhere in Long Island
On autopilot
With a fat neurotic wife
Who handed my brother to her psychiatrist
Off like a diamond
Of over thirty years to see
Nothing that wasn’t there.
Now, he’s abandoned
The only family affair
He’s ever had in thin air.
People should be placed under suspicion
Because life is stranger than fiction.
My mother died,
A few months ago
And it was an unpleasant surprise.
All the memories
That mattered
Did not
Because subplots rot
And you never thought
The ending was euphoric
Or that the present could be historic
In all the future
Things you will ever do
Or never not put in review.
I’m no longer scared of anything.
I experience all the good and bad
And come out tougher
And freer living on
Life’s golden wings.

Growing up I’ve never been without a pet. Thanks to my mom. Having pets was just as important as breathing because my mother always said, “Animals love unconditionally, unlike people.” My mom always wanted to be a veterinarian and for me — she was at heart. She was also a hardcore pet rescuer; to the point of hoarding.

In my life, there were always adventures with all types of pets from gerbils (which I named after watching Rocky — Rocky Balboa and Adrienne because my gerbils were a couple) to having albino-like ferrets to a shrine of hamsters, hyper rabbits, smelly turtles, colorful birds and all types of dogs and cats. My life has always been about pets in some form or another — I love animals. And also, still to this day, one of the most traumatic experiences of my life was putting my sick cat to sleep, for which I still shed tears. I miss her dearly, and I considered her my daughter (though I have zero kids).

I like to believe that because I grew up with so many types of animals my observations from animals relates heavily to human behavior, and my observations are better than most people. I also believe in being able to love intensely because of loving pets and finding them to be as important as the kids on the Pokémon cartoons did. The truth is, I’m an animal lover, and I’m more of an animal lover than I am a human lover. However, can I say that every pet and animal I’ve ever came into contact with (or will) — I liked or love with all my heart?

Well, no. I’ve only come across a couple of dogs and cats I didn’t like. They take place on one hand (out of an easy hundred or more) thankfully, but since staying with my friend — there’s a new form of dislike I never knew I could have for a dog. I actually keep some updates on my Twitter feed, usually with photos about this dog I dislike. I’ve become a bit obsessed, but I feel it’s because I’ve never in my life met a horrible dog like this.

What kind of breed is this dog? I don’t know? The breed of annoyance, of greed, of reincarnation but as a human-dog. She’s a hyper bitch, jumps everywhere like she’s in a circus, has ADD, is stubborn, defiant, can’t stay at one place too long, has insomnia and barely sleeps at night and genuinely doesn’t care if others sleep either.

She has straw-like fur in the color of hay. And her personality for a dog is practically horrible, in my opinion because she’s nothing like a dog — nothing common at least. For example, most dogs lick people as a sign of affection of sort. She never ever licks, but will try to tongue kiss your mouth if you allow it and it’s only because of the human food a person just ate.

In the beginning, I remember meeting the dog and wanting to be friendly with her because I really like animals, and as usual I give everything and everyone the benefit of doubt. I would pet the dog, talk to it in my nice customer service tone and sporadically feed it human food by hand. One of the first times I fed her by hand she fucking bit me hard enough in the process as if she were a fucking piranha.

It wasn’t until my friend came up with the rule of not feeding her human food did I notice a shift in her affections and attention towards me. It was all fake. She stopped coming to me entirely and when she went by me I swore I heard her snob-ass scoff as if I didn’t matter in the first place. The people who did matter were the ones disobeying the rule — the two teenagers. So, it was interesting to see a dog act so much like a human and with human emotions unlike a dog. She used me, and I never fed her human food again.

I hate this dog, not because she’s fake, but because she’s not loyal to a family house. If a stranger was to feed her food, she wouldn’t care and would chomp down on human flavors, protein and fat — while these strangers would slash our throats to the city of the whole family.

I hate this dog because she belongs to the 15 year old who lives in the house and whenever it’s time to sleep with the girl, the dog decides she can’t stay locked in and sleep with her because she goes crazy every time she hears a fork scrape against a plate outside in the kitchen. The dog always proves her disloyalty. The dog will bark excessively until the dad takes the dog out of the room. Only then, does this dog stop barking and proceeds to go make her dog rounds to each room of the house as quickly as possible to see if anyone dropped food on the floor.

I hate this dog because I’ve never seen a dog so horny for human food. She creeps in corners, in rooms, hides under chairs, performs the downward dog, while peering from under the table and stalking every single person for human food in the house. I’ve never seen anything like it. One time someone placed their plate of food on the bed and when they came back to the room she was on the bed feasting from it like it was hers when she knows where her two bowls are — outside of the kitchen.

Another time, someone held a nice 6oz steak in their hands and for one second they put their hand down while walking out the room just when this dog jumped to try and snatch the steak out their hands. Mind you, she actually gripped it with her teeth, and we all agree to throw out a perfectly good steak because feeding her human food would reinforce bad behaviors. This was around the time when we found out that the 15 yr old was constantly feeding the dog by hand where it’s now to the point that the dog looks malnourished because it waits for the tiny bit of hand out it gets from the girl and leaves her dog food in the bowl entirely for days.

I wonder if this dog would be different if my friend wasn’t her fifth owner? Perhaps? I wish I could’ve observed her from all the previous houses to be able to study her and learn how her behavior has changed with every one of those homes. But, let’s get back to why I hate this dog. Whenever someone cooks in the kitchen, she’ll remain within distance, in case any food falls on the floor and she actually goes as far as not eating her dog food until everyone stops cooking and eats their foods in case anything falls.

I hate this dog because morning, noon and night she’s always searching for human food. If she’s inside the room with the door closed, she barks to be let out only when she hears utensils because she knows someone is cooking in the kitchen. Did I mention — she’s so horny for human food that she starves herself? Her last record was 3 days. She starved for 3 days, not once touching her dog food. She’s now beaten her last record with 6 days of starving herself. Now, before anyone jumps into the conclusion of maybe she doesn’t like her dog food and you have to switch it..

I took the liberty of finding a dog food she actually likes. (I’ve pretty much taken ownership and am the one that influences the house on the matters of the dog. She’s my new experimentation.) She likes the dog food called Gravy Train — the one where you can just add water, stir, and it makes gravy. She used to twirl in happy circles for the food in the beginning. Now she doesn’t. This only lasted for roughly 3 weeks before she went back to desiring the fuck out of human food. And what bothers me about this is there are animals and house pets in the world who are starving and freezing in the street who would love to eat food — and here we are feeding an ungrateful fucking dog who doesn’t care if we ever feed her dog food, just human food.

I have conditioned the dog to stop staring and stalking humans for food. I went from using multiple water bottles (because I rather use water than actually abuse her physically because I don’t like animal abusers — plus this dog is stubborn as fuck for an attempt on verbal and tone shit) until she became immune to water. Then every time she barked because she wanted to come out of the room or wanted to be disobedient and watch people eat — I locked her and made sure everyone else locks her in the bathroom until now she makes not a sound and not a stare for food.

To be honest, who wouldn’t be a fucking bitch or an assbole if they’re constantly starving themselves? And who wouldn’t beg and stare hoping for the easiest target in the house to break and give a hand out? And wouldn’t you do anything it takes to get your greedy mouth on human food? Hm, and how about like acting? Because this dog acts and she only acts out with the 15 yr old girl. What the dog does is she shivers uncontrollably as if she’s been placed in the freezer and then she sits right in front of the 15 yr old or right by the side of her until the girl breaks down and gives her a tiny particle of food.

The first time I saw this dog shiver — as you might’ve imagine I was shocked because I knew she was acting; the house is cozy and warm, there’s no way she was fucking cold. And of course, she didn’t start shivering until she got near the dish of the 15 yr old girls food. Then I told everyone in the room, I can’t believe she’s acting — and is so horny for food — and when I said that, the dog looked at me with a disgrace of a face as if I blew up its spot (because I believe she knows English) and the bitch decided to stop shivering right then and there. The dog knows the words: Come here, Get out, Stay, Sit, Please leave and food. There are many other examples I can write, but God did I write a lot as is.

Patience and consistency is key and I have both at this very moment. Still we haven’t cured her of eating her dog food religiously. She rather starve — and in few cases, rather than eat her dog food, she begs the 15 yr old owner to get a piece of cake, fried chicken or buttered rolls, even after she’s eaten a big meal. And I only need to get the 15 yr old girl to fully get on the bandwagon of not feeding this ungrateful dog any human food ever again. The truth is, I don’t know if this dog will ever want to eat her dog food again even if the 15 yr old stops feeding her because this dog is fucking damaged.

There are many things I can say about this dog like how she portions out her dog food, how she’s stubborn and in the beginning when we punished her she would act out in defiance by taking a shit on the couch, in a specific room and vomits on people’s beds intentionally. But I’ve said more than enough about this hobo dog. Everything is experimentation, condition and progress in this world, and as long as one stays consistent on a matter, one can change whatever it is you truly desire. Fortunately, this includes this dog I hate. Maybe. Wish me luck.

P.S.

If anyone has any suggestions on this human dog and how to tame it further without physical abuse, I’m all ears. Thanks for reading. 😉

I’ll remember you as cold and typically distant, there in body – not in spirit, on your phone nonstop, barely a spoken word, tiny complaints, annoyed facial expressions, being passive, sex on the forefront of the mind, in and out menial conversations, game apps, assisting me and the folding of my wheelchair, zero mantra of hope, making me sandwiches and fetching cups of orange juice, implying I may not be in as much pain as I seem, comfort in the back of the car when the wind directed my flowing tears after leaving my mother’s burial, sharing a cab ride, and a cracked joke about my mom on her way to heaven asking for a cigarette.

I’ll remember you as a selfish bitch, grieving inwardly and out, unconcerned when it came to everyone else, money-seeking cuntbag, couldn’t carry out a sister’s dying wish of cremation, head out in the clouds of complete nothingness, forgotten identification card, planning a memorial for death as a healthy outlet, taking time off work to eat like a greedy hog who’s content to be lazy, judging others, caring for nonsense drama like a half-sister threatening you with words on Facebook and sending me on my way with one-hundred dollars and bags of brand new clothing.

I’ll remember you as a developing friend who became my good friend, who redirected his attraction to me so we can be platonic, who wanted to represent something new and different in my life, as the one who cared for me with warm compresses, tending to my cyst, having meals prepared along with home accommodations so I can maneuver around the house with a broken ankle, who gave me poetry every day of light and love, hands of great passion which caressed my face and taught me about warmth I have missed, who visited my dying mother along with me because you felt, more than I that it was significant.

And maybe brother was supposed to be out the picture
So I can obtain closure with mother
Life – the ambiguous fixer
Every time he was around, I wanted to scream
I wanted to live in another family’s dream
From the attention she gave him
Left me unhinged
But these years he saved me by never coming
Around to see her when it was the most important running
There’s a bigger picture up in the sky
And sometimes the inexcusable diguises as a why
And I no longer need to understand the goddamned
Or the motherland of disbands
Or keep hold of poisoned anger
I’ve given up every clamor of an anchor
My heart has opened up with the spacious grace of Athens
I’ve been released by my brother’s absence

-Pennington

P.S.

Why didn’t my brother see our mother once in the past 4 years just one more time before she died roughly 3 days ago?

The blood results came back and I became crippled with the news, “You’re pregnant.” My suspicions were true along with that Tiger dream, the one who magically fixed a uterus back together. I hung up the phone and backtracked. Everything made sense: Breasts filled with voluminous rage, cravings I kept in denial like a drug addict and my stomach rising like yeast. The sinking feeling of depression, the steady exhaustion, hyper sexual appetite and forgetting about the gym was soon to be up for debate or a choice to make, one that follows instant termination.

Which came first: The slip of a faulty IUD I’ve had on for years or the pregnancy? I’m uncertain and so is everyone else. And if 9 weeks and 2 days weren’t enough time on my plate and in my belly I had to head into the emergency room to figure out if the pregnancy was in fact in my uterus or if it was going to be considered a very dangerous: Ectopic pregnancy. I spent the entire day looking at people with different diseases in the hospital and was sure to contact a disease from the man who was vomiting next to me.

And no matter where I went I had to deal with every single nurse and doctor and even my own bizarre GYN stating how I can have this baby if I want to regardless of the small facts like the percentages of miscarriages that derive from the IUD and the first 20 weeks of pregnancy and regardless if the IUD somehow could penetrate the baby itself at some point or another. It seemed like everyone assumed I’m going to have this baby knowing that the reason why I opted for an IUD in the first place is because it has a 99% effective rate without hormones. But somehow I managed to be that 0.01% to become pregnant. Is it safe to say the downside to being healthy is being fertile? (And I know there are women out there who can’t have kids or are trying to, so it seems with that last statement I’m ungrateful. I assure you I’m not ungrateful.)

Last night in my honesty I told my aunt about the pregnancy to which she was ecstatic and made me call my mother who cried out of joy for something she could look forward to instead of dying in her nursing home bed who told me to call my brother to let him know he’s going to be an uncle. They were all just making plans and seeing a future I didn’t. I never mentioned to them that I have an appointment for termination. This would break their hearts. Now I’m to lie to them for the next few weeks until I feel they can bear it. The only person who made a mention of why I’m leaning towards not having the baby was the Indian lady who was probing my vagina with the sonogram dildo. But I presume she was just a nosy woman or just needed not to feel as awkward as me having that camera dildo in my twat so she became nothing less than a chatty Kathy.

It’s absolutely crazy how people don’t live your life or care to see things from your perspective yet they want to tell you that college isn’t important that having a baby is because you’re not getting any younger and there’s a time limit. A time limit for whom since I’m of no concern to them? It’s insulting and it’s basically telling me, “Your life doesn’t matter. Just have this baby so we the family can live for hope in the name of the future.”

Is anyone truly prepared to have a kid whether financially, emotionally or mentally?

I’ve never really gave it much thought until last week. I also never gave it much thought to have a child because I’m not at a place where I’m pleased to be. How would I look like having a child while still living with my roommate? How would I handle being burdened in my own life and than to bring that forth to my child even if it wouldn’t remember in the early part of their years? I don’t have family or friends who would be able to babysit for me. I still want an educational degree that I’ve earned. I want and need more money. Surely, all these things can be excuses because there are plenty of people who can do it all or do their best. But it’s not for me. Not now. But I realize that no one can be prepared for having a child. It changes the complete fuck out of you. I couldn’t imagine having it at this time.

I was struggling with the thought of being a bad person (something I believe I’m truly not) because not allowing this baby to live will somehow make me a bad person. Still I did my best to not have a repeat of a second abortion that took place 9 years ago when I was put to sleep. I was young, scared, full of tears and very emotional even after I dealt with it. Still 99% is only 99%. Maybe when I go in this week to take care of the final duties my punishment is being awake while they perform this 3-5 minute procedure.

And in some weird way I feel like I probably deserve it even with the precautions I took.

Somewhere between the age of twenty-nine and thirty I’ve learned to stop being super strong mentally and to stop being selfish when it comes to people who may not love me in the way common people hold on to their ideal definition of what it’s like to be family. But things are what they are. Many times it’s better if one understood sooner than later: It’s okay to cutoff the systematic approach of over-complicating your life just because you FEEL it’s important or at the very least are filled with bottomless need of something (anything) to continually complain about because it consists of your selfishness and attachment to life.

The thing that bugs me out is how I had the type of childhood where I couldn’t wait to grow the fuck up. So by the time I made it out my teenage years I ran away from my family as far as I fucking could hoping to deny who, what and where I came from. (But never to the extent of my pathological liar brother who’s so shameful he tells everyone he’s from Greece.) At first it was spectacular and I forgot somebody’s sperm and somebody’s egg created me. In the middle of my twenties I had the hardest time forgiving my family when it was me I needed to forgive. FUCK THEM!

Than some time last year until the present I realized just how much I’ve missed out on everybody else’s life like my one cousin who was shot 7 times by another man’s envy yet survived somehow. Or how my other cousin has now been diagnosed with being bipolar and schizophrenic ever since he spaced the fuck out and shat in the living room of his house and started to finger-paint. Then came my grandfather’s multiple heart attacks and aunt’s breast cancer.

Still what throws me for the biggest loop is catching up with my family brings me back to the thought of “Holy shit! So I’m REALLY am a part of this dysfunctional family” especially when we started to share sex stories. My aunt M (scratch that!) everyone in my family talks openly about sex in a way that is just like breathing air along with casual humor.

She starts out by saying how her last relationship was horrible and had to end it because the guy didn’t know how to fuck let alone eat pussy. Than my mother chimed in with, “Why didn’t you teach him?” “Aye no! I don’t like teaching.” I butted in, patted my mother on the back with a chuckle and said, “Well on my end it must be genetics.” We all laughed, until my mother killed it by saying “My daughter must be the same good lover as me.” ><

I can’t deny what lacks or breeds within me. I’m bound by blood and shit. Yeah, I know a lot of everything happens to be about exposure, and of course, about the very things we frequently collect such as our moral codes. And I’m not sure, entirely why, I feel like speaking about this, except for the fact that it’s in the forefront of my mind but: Monogamy.

Some people believe in it and others don’t. Either way I believe it stems (typically and/or sometimes) from our introduction at home and no matter how anybody makes it seem Monogamy is a Personal Choice (and unnatural ;)). Monogamy and I don’t get along simply because I look at this word and the baggage it comes with as a matter of possession, not of love or kindness. And growing up I didn’t have anyone to help me look at it otherwise (nor do I want to at this point in time :D).

In my family, every single person I’m aware of cheats on their partner, spouse, lover, boyfriend, girlfriend with someone at some point of their lives whether they believed they had a good reason for it or not. The other day I was telling my nonexclusive partner once again: How I rather be in an open-relationship than the closed one we used to share for the thousand time. And I used the story my aunt M told everyone in the kitchen to prove the point of why I feel I am the way that I am: Her son (who’s her favorite by the way) calls her daily on the phone to speak about how he met someone (WHO IS NOT HIS WIFE) who has the fattest ass.

M never mentioned whether he’s already being unfaithful but goes on to say, “I can’t tell him he shouldn’t cheat or mess around with other girls. He’s just twenty-three years old and married young with an 8-month year old baby. He needs to experience and have his adventures. But I tell him he has to delete all the text messages he sends out and receives quickly because his wife who’s already insecure about herself will leave him and she’ll never let me see my grandson again..especially if she found out I was giving him this kind of advice.”

I always felt that before you get into a “closed” relationship with anyone you should learn as much as possible about where their family comes from and what their core values are and what their culture reflects and yada yada yada. Example: I dated a Chinese man years ago and never knew I was dating an entire custom so deep that behind my back his toxic family would set him up on dinner dates with Chinese women for an arrange marriage in the near future.

Another important factor is just how great or poor their parenting skills are in terms of these great examples that are not to be taken likely and based on true stories: Are they the kind of parents to help their children get away with actual murder, such as allowing their son/daughter to pass HIV to their current partner even though the entire family knows about it? Or are they the type of parents who want the best for their children and actually guide them slightly into leading a fulfilling life with their girlfriend/boyfriend, but have enough decency to never personally conflict their own lives?

Lastly, no matter how much your husband/boyfriend or wife/girlfriend claims to not get along with their parents (like me!) children (no matter how old we become) tend to shadow their first little-known role-models. It’s hard to be something we aren’t when we primarily are created in our parents image (or whoever we grew up with). To avoid a situation like the story above (in a sense) it helps to know where your partner came/comes from because (more than likely – unless they experienced a traumatic experience that takes them completely out from who they were) that’s where they’re heading. Unless again, you come from my family and it’s unfaithful exposure where it’s AUTOMATICALLY AND LITERALLY ENCOURAGED TO HAVE AN AFFAIR/CHEAT.

I’m not saying I condone awful behavior like cheating on your significant other and hope the secrets you’re busy covering up won’t catch up to you (because they will). What I am saying is I have an understanding and a knack for why people decide to make the personal choice of being mindfully faithless according to the in’s and out’s of my family. Key word: Exposure.

This is personal. So skip this if you always expect moi to maintain her strong-ness working at an optimum level of 110%.

Firstly, I dedicate this Post to @WriteWendy. Also her Org and Tumblr . Entirely because she’s honest and raw with her own Life and I’m taking a page out her book and releasing a moment to do the same simply because she greatly inspires me. Thanks Wendy with all my muscle fibers, heart and soul.

Yesterday I decided to do the impossible and visit my dying mother in the hospital. Heading over there all I could feel was a bundle of heightened anxiety in the pit of my stomach that felt just like when I threaten juniors to fight in the cafeteria. I’ve always been about entertainment in one way or another. But seeing my mother isn’t delighting in the least. It’s fucking devastating! So much so that when I look into her face all I want to do is break down and cry. There are many many reminders.

I haven’t seen her in a year. It’s partly punishment. It’s partly about keeping my entire sanity intact. I heard my mother gasp in surprise as the nurse told her your daughter is here as she was changing in her personal bathroom. I don’t know why (except that maybe the nurse was taken aback by my mother’s expression), but I felt compelled to tell the nurse I haven’t seen my mother in a long time. Naturally she asked, “Do you live far?” No, it’s just we really don’t get along.

For a moment she changed my loathsome perception of nurses with what she had to say: We only have one mother. Sometimes when people act harsh and angry, especially when they’re sick. It’s because they believe nobody loves them. They want somebody to take care of them and be there for them. Don’t you notice when you give them love they are much calmer? Whatever she did to you as a kid, leave it there. Come by and visit often.

When I finally saw my mom, I didn’t know what to say. I didn’t recognize her face. I tried my hardest to cover the grimace but she caught it through my stricken eyes, I know I gained a lot of weight, right? My reply: A little. I analyzed her face and it seems like someone stuffed two vineyard tomatoes under her cheeks how they flourish in furious mush. I was heartbroken. 😦

Then I roamed my eyes to her hair and many of her strands were gray. And I’m not sure what it was about youth or age or the past to present or what contradictions within me lied with wanting to run out and buy her a black tint so she can cover them? I’m not used to seeing my mother succumb to weakness or being anything less than what she is now. She’s a pretty good trooper with a million disguises putting politicians to shame. And for her not to hide in plain sight just made me feel awful as I wanted to do it for her. Jeweled travesties. Make sense?

Mother and I chatted for what seem like a brief moment where when she decided to lay down on her bed she told me: I missed you so much. I haven’t seen you in a long time. During this little time I had to reflect between what she said and what I felt with her asking me where my brother (her favorite) is and why has she never come out with the courage to tell me just how hard her ill existence is? She grabbed out for my hand, held it and fell right to sleep. I stuck around for a little while, wrote a note as to not wake her and thanked the nurse for being so welcoming.

But as soon as I left her room, I managed to get lost in the hospital. I swear it was a metaphor for how I was feeling at that moment. Before I stepped foot outside I saw a neon flashing sign: FOOD! I looked over the menu, reaching into my pockets to buy anything to shove my fucked up emotions down. I didn’t. I had a semi-long walk to the train station and before I made it. I walked into 3 different food stores (including a pizza shop) just to browse food while each and everyone of them were offering their services. Fucking gluttons! 😉

Holding back tears, thinking to myself: How does all the parties, all the drugs, all the fun my entire family has ever had in life come down to letting go of life and losing absolutely everything in return? How? But I know the answers. I know why I’m cynical. But in the end it’s not the end. Yet the somewhat happy ending concluded with sucking up the emotional guts to visit my mother and finally make it home successfully with healthy and whole foods from the market.